


In Too Deep

by zeraparker



Category: The Walking Dead RPF
Genre: Character Bleed, Dry Humping, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Exhaustion, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M, Making Out, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-21
Updated: 2017-03-21
Packaged: 2018-10-09 00:44:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10399911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zeraparker/pseuds/zeraparker
Summary: They'd received the scripts and Andy's stomach had turned when he'd read the plans for the first episode and he'd had a strong drink and a cry afterwards. There's nothing to be ashamed off in that.Still, it shouldn't have been like this.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Very stream-of-consciousness-y rambling, sorry not sorry. *points up at tags* Fair warning ahead. Also, it's more innocent than it looks. I mean, come ooooon, it's Chandler. He's basically a cuddley pokemon. Which makes me feel bad, but still. Also, I ship them like crazy, okay, ssssshhhhh, let's not talk about that too loudly.  
> Enjoy!

It shouldn't have been like this. 

Of course, Andy had known it would be intense. Hell, filming the end of the last season, those last scenes with Negan showing up for the first time, they'd been intense, had been hell already. He'd known where they were headed for, had known at least one of his fellow cast would fall victim to that sadistic motherfucker; the comics had Glenn killed off, so when during the shooting break he'd heard from Steve that he was looking into new projects, he was able to prepare himself. Same when Michael had phoned him one day and said he'd jump the cliff too.

Then they'd received the scripts and Andy's stomach had turned when he'd read the plans for the first episode and he'd had a strong drink and a cry afterwards. There's nothing to be ashamed off in that.

Still, it shouldn't have been like this.

Andy had been one of the first back on set, shooting the scenes with Jeffrey at the roadblock before they'd brought in all the others to finish up in the clearing. They've spent night after night on their knees, shooting the deaths of their friends from every angle, then getting another set of scenes, Negan beating them down one after the other, to leak as a decoy for snooping fans. Those had been just as hard to go through, even though he'd known they were just a trick, but still. Seeing Danai, Lauren, hell, Chandler crumpled to the ground had ripped Andy's heart apart every time anew.

By the time they move on from the night shoots to the day shoots, Andy's nerves are running thin. During the day off they get to readjust to the different shooting schedule, he runs into Jeffrey in the hallway of the hotel the cast is staying, and he knows it's not Jeffrey's fault, the rational part of his mind knows that Negan is just as much of a role as Rick is, but he can't help himself from turning around and walking down the hallway in the other direction lest he lashes out and gives into the urge to punch him in the face like he wants to do so bad.

It's hard on everyone. Mood over breakfast in the hotel restaurant is subdued. Chandler is sitting close to Lauren, his head on her shoulder after they're both done picking at their food. Norman is trying to keep the conversation going by telling some inane story but his usually so animated voice is lacking conviction, and no one answers to the little queues in the story. Christian and Danai are talking quietly among themselves at the other end of the table.

He really expected the day shoots to be less hard. After all, they had the death scenes over and done with, right? But their friends' corpses where still lying among the half circles in front of Andy, and however he tried to channel his grief into the performance, channel it into something constructive, all he could feel was rage and helplessness.

Andy's on his knees again, for hours grovelling next to Negan's feet, and this shouldn't be so hard but somehow it's worse than seeing his friends die. Negan is picking Rick apart, and Andy lets him, allows himself to be flayed open over and over again with each take.

And then there's Carl.

Chandler, really. He's grown up so much over the past years, hell, over the past months too, another inch added to his lanky frame every time Andy blinks, but it's hardly that: he's growing into Carl too, finally filling out a character that would be hard game for every veteran actor, much less a child thrust into it. He's always been one of them, right from the start, but he's finally shaking off the baby face he's been trying to claw off for a while now.

Watching Carl stand up to Negan is mesmerizing, like a beacon of light and strength, and when he's pushed to the ground next to Rick, Andy latches onto his hand and doesn't let go.

“It's okay,” Chandler says, between one take and the other, his fingers squeezing Andy's where they're still clutching at each other, never having let go, and Andy knows the smile he tries in return is weak and probably more of a grimace, but Chandler smiles back and Andy believes him.

By the end of the shoot, Andy is numb. Not just his legs from the crouched position on the ground, but his hands too, their grasps too tight on the handle of his axe and Chandler's reassuring, warm skin. His head is numb too, and he's tired, exhausted. He just wants it all to be over. They call it a wrap, but he stays on his knees, too dazed to get up. He's not sure if that was it, if they have to come back tomorrow for more, hard to keep up with the schedule when he's so immersed in the moment. He doesn't want to even think about it anyway. There's noise around him, motion as everyone starts packing, clearing out the set for the evening, and he closes his eyes allows himself to drown in the every day noises for a moment, needing something to ground himself because the dirt beneath his palms and knees feels less than steady.

“Andy?”

It takes a moment for the name to sink in, and he wonders whether he's been called a couple times already by the time he shakes his head like a dog to clear the last tendrils of confusion and looks up. Chandler is still sitting next to him, not on his knees and with his face in the dirt any more, but crosslegged. He's swaying slightly, pale from exhaustion, and it's only then that Andy realises their hands are still clasped tightly.

“Sorry,” Andy mumbles, swallowing around the lump in his throat.

“It's okay,” Chandler just says, so much gentleness in his voice that Andy feels another tear involuntarily slip down his cheek. Andy wants to hug him, wants to be close to him, reassure him that yes, it will be okay, hell, he's the adult, he should be doing the comforting. The moment stretches between them, like a tightly strung thread, but then Chandler's name is called out across the set, and he looks away, and the moment passes, unused.

“Come on, old man,” Chandler says and gets to his feet, pulling Andy up by his hand, towing him across the set. “Let's get you cleaned up.”

 

Later, back at the hotel, Andy forgoes dinner in the restaurant for a room service sandwich he barely picks at. The shower doesn't run out of hot water but he sure gives it a damn good try, his skin pruney and red by the time he gets back out. The mirror above the sink is steamed up so he wipes his hand across it to get a look at his face, scratches at his beard.

He eventually settles on the couch in his suite; it's adrenaline withdrawal, after the day of shooting at high alert. His body feels leaden, yet his mind is still restless, unable to settle in the peaceful state of sleep. He takes a couple more bites from his abandoned sandwich, then gives into the urge and grabs the bottle of Bourbon Norman had given him before the shooting began for this season and breaks the seal, emptying three fingers straight into a water glass before returning the bottle to the minibar.

Andy's been mindlessly zapping through the TV channels for half an hour when there's a knock on the door. For a moment he doesn't want to move, but it's not so late to be rude to knock on someone's door and he doesn't want to be rude either, not answering. So he pushes himself to his feet and pads barefoot across the room.

Chandler looks much more like himself in his oversized hoodie, his shoulders slumped like he isn't comfortable with his own ever growing height yet. Andy allows him in without a question, watching as Chandler takes a couple steps into the room, hovering uncertainly, his eyes flickering to the 24 hours shopping channel Andy had eventually ended up on.

“What are you doing here?”

Chandler shrugs, shuffling his feet. “I just... today was,” he pauses, trying to find the right words. “Something.”

It's a wry chuckle that works up Andy's throat. “Yeah, something.”

They share a thin smile, then Chandler wrestles the neck of a bottle out of the front pocket of his baggy hoodie. It's a bottle of Bourbon, just like the one Norman had given to Andy, with a good chunk already missing from it. Andy rolls his eyes.

“I'm gonna kill Norman.”

“Relax, don't tell me you didn't at my age,” Chandler returns, and then unscrews the bottle, taking a tentative sip. He can't help pulling a bit of a face at the taste, meets Andy's eyes defiantly. “I'm still getting used to it.” He holds the bottle out to Andy in offering, his hand shaking a little, and Andy realises that the day has been just as taxing on Chandler as it has been on himself. Watching your idol gutted in front of your eyes must be excruciating. Andy can't wait to see the final cut, it must be glorious.

Walking up to him, Andy takes the bottle from his hand, swallows another mouthful, before putting it on the table, firmly out of reach; it's bad enough allowing the boy a drink under his eyes, he won't allow him to get drunk.

“Spoilsport,” Chandler mutters under his breath, but there's no vehemence behind it, just something else, and it takes Andy way too long in his own messed up state of mind to catch on.

Andy straightens, reaching out to grab Chandler's arm, squeezing gently. “You did good today,” he says, trying to put all the heartfelt adoration he holds for the kid into his voice.

Chandler blinks, and from one moment to the other his eyes are watery with too many feelings. “Yeah?” he asks quietly, not really a question, and Andy wishes he was better at this. He squeezes Chandler's arm again.

“Yes.”

Chandler collapses into him like a puppet cut off its strings. Andy catches him with one arm around his slim waist, the other moving from his arm to his back, holding him against himself.

It shouldn't feel off. Andy's hugged Chandler for half a decade now, just yesterday reaching all the way back half a decade to when he was light enough to be picked up and carried around. So it shouldn't feel weird, it shouldn't, and yet it does. Chandler's arms are around his waist, his face pressed into the crook of Andy's neck, hot breath damp against the skin beneath Andy's t shirt. He's so tall now, they're almost eye to eye whenever Chandler doesn't do that slouch like he's ducking away from everyone around him; he's not the child in the group any more, no matter how often someone calls him kid across set. This isn't the little boy looking for someone to pat his head and tell him how great he is, it's a peer among peers, looking for the validation and recognition he rightfully deserves.

Andy doesn't really know what he's saying, allows all the adoration and love he feels for him to spill out over his lips in mindless little nothings whispered and lost between them, but whatever Chandler is looking for must be among them, because his breathing seems to become a little steadier, a little deeper. His hands are clenched in the back of Andy's shirt, but his fingers seem to relax bit by bit. Andy keeps him close with his arm around his waist, the fingers of his other hand carding through the soft strands of Chandler's hair.

His tired body is shaking under the strain of keeping both of them up. Andy shifts his weight, hearing the disgruntled noise Chandler makes, the way he only clings tighter. One shuffled step back, another, and Andy can feel the sturdy structure of the couch against the back of his legs, half falls, half guides them down onto it. They end up in the corner of the couch, Andy's back more against the armrest than the backrest, Chandler's hands trapped beneath Andy's back before he wriggles them free, settling against Andy's chest.

With a quiet sigh, Chandler shifts his weight, not leaning as heavily onto Andy any more. His breath ghosts over Andy's throat. Andy cranes his head back to glance down, Chandler's eyes sky blue when they meet his gaze.

The first brush of lips over lips is tentative, almost accidental, almost like a hallucination, only that when Andy blinks, Chandler isn't gone, those bright blue eyes still staring at him imploringly, Chandler's body still a warm weight against his chest, and he feels so good, so alive that Andy closes his eyes and leans back in for another timid touch of their mouths together.

Chandler's lips are soft, not chapped and dry like is own, moving against him hesitantly, exploratory, and Andy lets him, doesn't have the strength to stop him like he knows he should, not when he feels so warm and solid, a grounding weight pushing him back into the cushions of the couch. Andy's fingers still play with Chandler's hair, rubbing the silky strands between his fingers, not tugging or twisting, just feeling the texture. His other hand has settled in the bunched fabric of Chandler's hoodie at the bottom of his spine, the hem that's reached almost his thighs now bundled up higher over his hips as they' settled into their entwined position on the couch. There's a sliver of milky skin between the hem of the hoodie and the top of his jeans that's radiating warmth like the last slice of sun before sunset. A needy little whimper escapes Chandler's mouth when Andy touches it.

They kiss for what feels like hours, unhurried. It's just lips against lips, sharing closeness and comfort for a long time, and Andy should draw the line there, should be the one to make sure to stop them before they can go any further and make things awkward, but he can't. Chandler is all silk and warmth and sunlight on old stones to his senses and Andy is still too needy, Rick still scratching too close beneath his skin not to hold onto what he's being offered.

A little nip at his lower lips precedes the slick swipe of the tip of Chandler's tongue along the seam of Andy's lips, a question more than a demand, and Andy gives in again, his mouth pliant, tongue meeting Chandler's, and they moan in unison, low and heartfelt.

It comes and goes in waves. One minute they're fiercely kissing, the next it's little nips and touches, just breathing each other in, before a needy keen sets them off anew. In one of the lulls, Chandler sighs, shifting to settle his head against Andy's chest, ear pressed over his erratic heart beat. His eyes are glassy, reflecting the flickering lights from the forgotten TV screen, staring somewhere into the distance. He's quivering, a soft tremble in his muscles despite their relaxed state, and oh, of course.

“Hey,” Andy says to get Chandler's attention, voice hoarse and throat suddenly dry when he sees Chandler's plump, bruised lips, the skin around his mouth red with beard rash, the blush spreading across his high cheek bones. “It's okay,” Andy says, and that should be it, maybe press another chaste kiss on top of his head, and send him away like he should have done right from the start, but. Andy brushes another strand of hair behind Chandler's ear, his fingers trailing down the line of his jaw and Chandler tilts his face up for another kiss, open mouth meeting open mouth, and Andy just can't. Doesn't want to.

Andy shifts, brings up his foot that he had still resting on the floor onto the couch, and the move makes his thigh push up between Chandler's, finding the hard length of his arousal. Chandler breaks the kiss with a startled moan, biting his lip. God, to be a teenager again, Andy thinks, and it should be wrong, but Chandler is exuding life and heat and everything that's good in the world and Andy just can't let him go.

“It's okay,” Andy murmurs again, right into Chandler's gasping mouth.

“Please,” Chandler whines, his hips rocking down, rubbing himself against Andy's thigh through the layers of his jeans and Andy's sweatpants. He's so far gone already; Andy can feel arousal coil lazily in his guts, but he's nowhere there himself, the day has left him drained physically and mentally, but there's a different kind of pleasure in not having to succumb to his body's desperate urges, a different kind of pleasure in watching Chandler fall apart against him, and he looks his fill, drinking up all the little noises Chandler makes, guiding him gently with his hands on his hips to make it good for him, not to tease him.

Before long Chandler is coming, his whole body pressed tight against Andy's, fingers clenched at his sides, face buried against his neck. Andy holds his overheated body, feeling him tremble and shake, soft noises muffled in the hem of his t shirt, the fabric going damp against his collar bone.

Andy has returned to carding his fingers through Chandler's hair by the time Chandler finds his voice.

“Don't make me leave,” he says, trying to get closer, if that was even possible, his words pressed directly against Andy's throat.

“I won't.”

 

In the morning, Andy is awake long before Chandler. Only the gauzy inner curtains are drawn in front of the windows, allowing the early morning light to spill through into the room. Andy is a light sleeper under any circumstances, and having another body in bed with him doesn't help. Not that Chandler takes up much space. He's rolled onto his side, facing the middle of the bed, but staying firmly in his third. He's got the blanket drawn up to his chin, fist curled around the edge of it. His hair is splayed in a wide halo on top of the pillow.

Andy's heart bleeds. Chandler looks... peaceful. Whole. His long eyelashes are dark smudges across his rosy cheeks. The morning light catches on his cheek bones and jaw, the smattering of freckles almost invisible, not yet darkened by the oncoming summer. His hair looks like silk, the pristine white sheets rough in comparison. Young and warm and so alive.

He can feel Rick scratch at the inside of his skin. He's never too far away these days, the deconstruction of his character for the upcoming season like a demolition site inside Andy's mind that he can't ever close completely in danger of losing the progress. It's hard to look at Chandler – at Carl – like that, at what he's become – flayed wide open and only clumsily stitched back together – at what Rick has done to him, is still doing to him every day. 

Chandler like this is a vision of what Carl could have been if not for the end of the world and all the shit that's happened then, all the shit Rick put him through, couldn't protect him from, neglected to help him with. All the times Rick treated him like a child when Carl pulled his weight like any other adult in the group. All the times Rick treated him like an adult when all Carl needed was his father.

Tears are burning in the back of his eyes and he sniffs, reaching out with his fingers to touch the very tips of Carl's hair, feels it move between his fingers and the pillow. It's so long by now, and it's not the first time he's wondered whether Carl is trying to pay a tribute to Lori like this, an unconscious decision as it might be. He looks so much like her these days, every day more. He's inherited her tall lean frame. Some days it's almost impossible for Rick to look at him and not feel his heart tear all over again.

Carl barely looks at him with a loving gaze any more these days and that only reminds him of Lori too, of the months before the apocalypse, when things had already been difficult and brittle between them. Rick had known the end was coming then, only he could never have imagined the form it would take.

“Andy.”

Two blue eyes look at him patiently, sleep still clinging around the corners of them, in the tired purse of his lips. Andy blinks, once, twice, pushing Rick back into his box, even though it seems to get harder with every day they get deeper into the shooting for the season. He takes a deep breath, lifts his hand to Chandler's cheek, feeling the muscles move into a smile beneath his palm.


End file.
